


Begging for Your Pardon

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Mind Your Manners [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bottom Hank, Bottom Hank Anderson, Chapter 1 is necessary to get to the fluff and smut, Connor's necktie gets a tag, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Grooming, Gunshot Wounds, Injury Recovery, Light Bondage, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romantic Fluff, Self-Lubrication, Sort Of, Spit As Lube, The rating will change as the story progresses, Top Connor, Top Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Unresolved Emotional Tension, cavity inducing fluff, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-13 00:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16881975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: A blistering memory burns at Hank’s throat, making his eyes water. Connor, fingers tensed against the cabin doorway, bidding Hank a wretched farewell.Hank may not remember everything, but he remembers Connor.__Hank made a big mistake. If only he could remember what so he can try to fix it.This is part four of aseries.





	1. Remember Me

“Wake up, Hank.” Hank startles into a confusing consciousness at hearing Connor’s voice. His eyelids feel heavy and he struggles to open them, but everything is too bright. He winces them shut again and turns away from the light. Feeling a cool hand brush across his forehead, he leans into the familiar touch. The ache that has been building within his chest for days surges to meet it and crashes back down when Connor pulls away.

_I’m sorry. Don’t leave me._

He tries to say the words, but blackness snuffs out the glimmering lights shining through his eyelids. When he surfaces again, Connor is still there. He can feel his hand on his cheek and hear his voice. How much time has passed?

“Why did you push me away?” He whispers the question, but Hank doesn’t answer. He’s not certain if he can speak yet anyway, and guilt keeps his words locked in his throat. He can feel Connor gripping his hands, but they’re cold and he doesn’t like it.

He blinks open his eyes and is surprised to find himself at a park. He can’t place it, but it looks vaguely like the one he takes Sumo to for long walks. Something isn’t right about it, though. Something is _missing_. He looks down at his freezing hands and has the distinct feeling he’s forgetting something.

“Who’s a good boy?” He hears Connor somewhere in the park, presumably with Sumo, but he can’t see him. His voice is too loud, buffeting around his ears like gnats. Anytime Hank tries to turn his head to search for Connor, his temples throb horribly. He tries to call out for him, but his voice comes out thin and indistinct.

Abruptly, Connor is there. He’s holding a leash, but the dog on the end isn’t Sumo. It looks like a collie, its sable fur much sleeker than Sumo’s could ever hope to be. Hank tries to wave at him to grab his attention, but his arm won’t move. Another man, indistinct in the distance, calls to Connor from across the field. Connor’s head turns and Hank’s vision swims dizzyingly as it adjusts to take in Connor’s face from this new perspective.

The smile that lights up his features is unbearably beautiful. Hank’s heart seizes in his chest at the sight of Connor, full of adoration and happiness, smiling like this for another man. Connor is in love, he can see it written in the upward tilt of his mouth and the slight lines that crease around his eyes. Hank knows the expression well.

Connor is in love with a man and it isn’t Hank.

Angry red pain envelops Hank like fire and he wants to scream, but his mouth stubbornly refuses to make sounds. The heat of is scorches up his neck, searing his esophagus. The pain inches over to his shoulder and begins to burn with livid fury, the image of Connor fading with it.

“No!” He shouts it and feels an ounce of satisfaction at hearing his own voice properly. The excruciating pain in his shoulder soon consumes his attention, however. Blearily, he tries to find Connor’s face, but he is gone. The park is gone. The strange dog, the unknown man, also gone. Hank’s world reduces to the blistering agony that is his shoulder and he feels like he must succumb to madness to escape it.

Without warning, without reason, the pain is gone and Connor is back.

“Hank, it’s ok. I’m here. Calm down, please.” Warm hands this time envelop one of his. He can’t see it so much as sense it, but Connor’s presence bursts into his consciousness like a warm golden glow. He hears Connor make soft soothing sounds and the urge to cry overwhelms him.

What had he done to deserve this? Why did Connor stay when Hank was so callous and hell-bent on pushing him away?

“You tell me.” Connor’s voice cracks through the air around Hank like lightning. Feeling more solid than he has since first waking, he whirls around to face the sound. Connor is standing there, blue blood pouring freely from a wound in his chest. Hank’s eyes can’t look away from it.

“Why did you send me away?” Connor sounds harsh and demanding. Hank cringes away from it, terrified. He glances up to Connor’s face and finds only blackness where soft brown eyes should be.

“You’re not Connor.” Hank knows in his bones that he’s right, but this version of Connor doesn’t seem to care. He advances and Hank tries to take a step back but finds his legs are outside of his control again. Not-Connor is on him, angry hands gripping his shoulder in a vice. The pain starts to return and Hank tries to shrug out of the furious hold, only making the ache worse.

“I loved you,” Not-Connor’s mouth isn’t moving, but his voice drips like venom into Hank’s ears, “I loved you and you spurned me.” _Loved_. In love no longer. Hank’s heart clutches wildly and a cruel smile consumes the false Connor’s face.

Hideous thick laughter bubbles out of the doppelganger and his fingers drift from the shoulder that doesn’t pound with Hank’s pulse. Hank rears back as a cold, white forefinger moves to stroke his cheek, knowing that if this creature touches his face, he will shatter. The imitation of Connor snarls at Hank’s recoil and the hand still on his throbbing shoulder tenses sharply. Hank feels fingers pierce his skin, slithering through muscle and sinew, ripping screams from his throat.

His cries of pain echo maddeningly around him. One agonizing second at a time, they take on a more rhythmic and mechanical quality before settling into a steady, frequent beeping.

“Hank,” Connor’s voice comes to him from far away, replacing his specter as abruptly as he had appeared. A dim light in the distance beckons to him, glimmering as if he’s submerged under water and desperately in need of oxygen. He hears Connor call for him again, “Hank, please wake up.” Hope swells warm and firm in Hank’s chest, buoying him upward. Feeling the effort of it drain every ounce of strength he possesses, Hank opens his eyes a small fraction.

“Connor,” it comes out of him in a horrible croak, his throat raw and cracked. He blinks several times, trying to understand where he is and why he feels so ghastly. He can feel the remnants of a terrible dream skitter into the corners of his mind, becoming indistinct. Connor’s face crests into view, blissful relief defines every feature of his face. Connor must be able to see his confusion because he launches into speech immediately.

“You’ve been unconscious for 59 hours and 26 minutes,” Connor seems to be gauging his reactions, trying not to spook him, “You haven’t been…well.” He settles on the word, clearly not wanting to discuss whatever’s been happening in the last several days, “They only just managed to get your fever under control.”

“Wha-what…why?” Hank gestures at his throat, confused by the pain. He’s struggling to remember what landed him in a hospital and the throat pain makes no sense.

“They intubated you,” Connor says it in high agitation. “I _told_ them it wasn’t necessary. The bullet hadn’t perforated a lung or your heart, but—Hank!” Even without the assistance of several monitors, Connor would’ve been able to sense Hank’s distress.

“Bullet?” It comes out a whisper, but the memory of a gunshot filters into his mind in disjointed pieces. He remembers a cabin and Reed. He remembers a thickset man. He recalls a terrible sadness, but his mind doesn’t seem to want to touch the memory just yet.

“Agent Perkins’ nephew, Jackson, is in custody. We took him alive; he’ll stand trial.” Connor’s eyes burn with a fury so complete, Hank fears anything he looks at may burst into flame.

_Jackson_. So the stocky man has a name now. When Hank tries to speak again, Connor makes a distressed face at the roughness of his voice. Hank mimes writing on a paper and Connor produces some hospital stationary and a pen. After some fiddling, Connor manages to elevate Hank’s bed slightly so he can make use of the over-bed table meant to hold trays of food.   

_Why did he shoot me?_ Connor pulls the paper toward him, turning it slightly before fixing Hank with an unreadable expression. Whatever relief Connor had felt at Hank’s waking, something much less pleasant has taken its place. Connor’s stance is the embodiment of wariness.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Hank balks at the question, realizing he’s not sure. He remembers having horrible dreams, but they remain shadowy and indistinct no matter how hard Hank tries to recall them. He remembers feeling a deep sadness that seemed endless, but how much of it was real and how much of it was his brain generating a hellish dreamscape? He pushes harder at his mind, working backward.

He remembers the sound of the gunshot more than the impact. It was impossibly loud despite being a common enough noise in his line of work. The sensation of fear gripped him tightly at the time, but it feels disconnected. He was afraid for someone else. He knows Reed was there, he recalls that bastard’s face with perfect clarity, but Hank hadn’t harbored the fear for him.

His eyes flick back to Connor, knowing with confusing certainty that he was afraid for him, but why? Connor is faster, stronger, and more capable of dodging bullets than Hank will ever be. Hank shakes his head, but no memories jiggle free with the motion. He remembers a cabin but not why he was there.

_Cabin?_ He finally writes and Connor understands the question.

“Yes, you were in a cabin,” Connor talks to him slowly, trying to navigate around something Hank doesn’t understand. It’s infuriating, but the dull throb in his shoulder forbids movement while the burn in his throat prevents him from demanding a better answer. Seeing Hank’s frustration, Connor asks, “Do you remember anything else?”

Hank can feel loose threads of memory tickling at the edge of his senses, but he can’t latch onto any of them. Fragments of moments try to coalesce, but then scatter before they take shape. He shakes his head slightly before throwing down the pen in irritation.

“Fowler will want to know that you’re awake. I’ll make the call in the hallway so you can rest.” Connor doesn’t quite meet his eyes, and the wretched feeling in the pit of his stomach grows at the sight. Connor knows something that Hank’s forgotten and it’s eating them both alive.

Hank struggles to hear what Connor’s saying to Fowler on the other side of the door, but his voice is nothing more than the impression of speech, an unintelligible murmur. Still, Connor’s voice is soft and whatever drug is pumping into Hank’s IV is making him drowsy despite having been asleep for days.

“Wake up, Hank.” It cuts through Hank’s drowsiness like a jagged knife. _Not again_ is all his panicked mind can think, recognizing the phrase that triggered his initial nightmares. Dream upon horrifying dream sear themselves into Hank’s mind with awful clarity, the foggy indistinct shape of them forming into solid memories. _Fever dreams_ , he thinks, but he can’t shake the feeling that some of them were real. His hands scrabble for the paper and pen, ignoring Connor’s sudden alarm at Hank’s rapidly beating heart.

_Were you here?_

Connor blinks down at the question in minor confusion, “The hospital? Yes, I’ve been here with you. Hank, you need to calm down.”

But Hank can’t slow himself down. He feels like he’s on the edge of something important; he needs to understand. Despite the protest in his shoulder, Hank continues to scribble his questions at a furious pace.

_Did you talk to me?_

_Did I talk to you?_  

Connor regards him warily and Hank knows he’s circling whatever it is Connor doesn’t want to discuss.

He answers the questions slowly, “Yes, I talked to you. The fever…it made you say odd things. Things that made no sense.” Hank looks at him imploringly and Connor answers the unasked question, “You asked me not to leave. You would thrash around sometimes and mutter nonsense things, but you were very adamant that I stay with you.” Connor won’t look at him, and Hank’s heart compresses painfully.

Hank picks up the pen again, unwilling to continue this torturous game.

_Are we_ —

His hand pauses and he knows Connor is staring at the paper. When Connor remains silent, Hank goes to finish the question, to force the issue. Connor’s hand closes over his.

“Don’t.” Hank feels pressure build behind his eyes and he stares up at the ceiling to avoid having to look at Connor’s terrifyingly blank face. Connor won’t let Hank ask the question nor will he answer it. That single syllable is enough to tell Hank, even if he can’t remember it, he _had_ pushed Connor away.

One, single glimmer of hope remains. Connor startles slightly when Hank moves to write again.

_Why are you here?_

Connor rises, agitated, and Hank knows he’s hit a nerve, “Because you asked me to stay. Anytime I tried to leave, your vitals spun out of control. Your wound got infected, your fever was too high, and…you asked.” The pause catches Hank attention and he knows Connor isn’t telling him the entire truth of the matter.

Hank taps the table to get Connor’s attention before pointing at the question again and adding a single word: _Now?_

For a moment, he thinks he pressed too hard because Connor’s hand clenches and unclenches spasmodically several times. He turns abruptly and strides to the door, anger written in the tense lines of his shoulders and back. His hand darts forward to grip the knob, but he doesn’t open it. He’s conflicted, and Hank wishes desperately to understand why.

“I have to go,” he says finally, and Hank is almost certain Connor’s deformed the doorknob from how hard he’s grasping it. He wrenches it open but remains where he stands. He seems to be fighting with himself. He turns to face Hank, one hand holding onto the frame. His LED stutters in a distressed red before he manages a quiet, “Goodbye, Hank.”

A blistering memory burns at Hank’s throat, making his eyes water. Connor, fingers tensed against the cabin doorway, bidding Hank a wretched farewell.

Hank may not remember everything, but he remembers Connor. A litany of moments come flooding in to fill the empty spaces of his memory.

Connor, in Hank’s clothes. Connor, holding back Hank’s hair as he vomited. Connor, pinning Hank’s arms behind his back. Connor, forgiving Hank for being the awful man he always becomes when life gets too hard. Connor, wrecking Hank and putting him back together again over and over.

He wants the barrage of memories to stop at this moment when he was happy, but remembrance isn’t kind. More memories filter in to fill the gaps Hank would rather remain vacant.

The dead victim holding his picture, the link between Perkins and cold cases, and the cabin swirl together forming a giant column of grief that crests at the memory of Cole and the new knowledge of why he died. It crashes onto his recollection of Connor’s face when he told him to go, when Connor reached out with fingers bared to touch him one last time, when Connor paused at the door just as he is now, following Hank’s orders but not his heart.

The memories clicking into place took only seconds, but Connor misreads Hank’s inaction. He’s already turning away and out in the hall when Hank tries to get out of bed. Instantly, several monitors start screaming in protest. His heart rate is too high, his blood pressure soars at the onslaught of pain in his shoulder, and the IV drip protests loudly when Hank rips it out of his arm.

He makes it three steps before his vision starts to go white from pain and abruptly standing after several days of lying down. Another two steps bring him within an arm’s reach of the door, but he sags heavily against the wall. He’s staring at the ground trying to figure out how he’s going to reach Connor if he can’t walk further than five feet without collapsing.

It takes Hank several minutes to realize there is a very angry Connor glowering while an irate nurse shouts at him.

“Mr. Anderson, _what_ are you doing out of bed? What have you done to your IV?” Connor looks like he wants to interrupt the nurse to shout at Hank some as well, but the woman rounds on him instead, “And _YOU_ —,” she jabs a finger at Connor’s chest, “You’re supposed to be watching him. Where were you when he tried to make a break for it?”

Hank wants to protest that he wasn’t trying to escape from his hospital room, but seeing the nurse yell at Connor seems like a much better alternative than bringing the woman’s attention back on him. The nurse carries on for several more minutes while Connor stiffly helps Hank back into his bed. She appears to lose some of her steam as she replaces Hank’s IV, but it flares back to life again as she goes to leave.

“Mr. Anderson, if you try to get out of that bed again unassisted, I will personally strap you to it,” realizing she is quite serious, Hank blanches slightly. She turns her attention to Connor, “You stay here or so help me, I will handcuff you to him.” She takes her indignation with her, leaving only awkwardness in her wake.

“Well, guess Nurse Ratchet over there is _really_ into bondage,” Hank speaks without thinking and immediately regrets it. The pain in his throat isn’t unbearable, but he’d rather not make it worse if he can avoid it. His voice sounds like he’s run it over broken glass several hundred times. 

Connor continues to stand there, staring at Hank, radiating anger. With the sudden return of his memories, understanding at Connor’s mood came with them. He had been dejected at the cabin; here, he is fury. In the days between their parting and now, Connor has had time to think and fester.

Hank swallows hard around the ache in his throat and tries his best attempt at a peace offering, “I remember. I’m sorry.” The burn in his throat isn’t allowing him to explain himself well, but Connor jerks slightly at the realization that Hank remembers.

“ _We can’t keep doing this_ ,” Hank’s own voice resonating out of Connor is disconcerting and having his own words thrown back at him in an exact duplication makes him cringe. Hank bows his head, not wanting to look at Connor. A familiar grip on his chin makes him face Connor’s righteous indignation.

“Can we keep doing it now, _Hank?_ Now that you’ve been _shot_ , now that one of my worst fears has come to life in front of me because you wouldn’t _listen_?” Hank can tell Connor’s practiced this conversation because his inflection is perfectly timed to make him feel like absolute scum. Connor’s hand drops from his face and Hank’s chin chases it, seeking contact even if it is livid.

“Connor—,” Hank tries to speak, but a dry spot in his throat sends him into a coughing fit. Connor waits and Hank finds he has nothing to offer but his apologies. It feels like a small, paltry thing next to Connor’s simmering wrath.

He tries again, “Please. I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_.” Hank wants desperately for Connor to touch him again, to hold him, but he can’t close the gap between them on his own and Connor doesn’t appear willing to absolve him.

“Scared,” Hank whispers and Connor’s eyes meet his, “I was scared.” Connor sinks down onto the bed, dropping his head into his hands. Hank can see Connor’s fingers bend and tense as if he’s trying to keep from exploding.

After a moment of strained silence he speaks, “So your response was to send me away? That worked out spectacularly, didn’t it? We _both_ got shot.”

Hank wants Connor to understand his fears, not just in that moment, but in their entirety. He was afraid to die, for Connor to die, but, having survived the encounter, he finds he’s still scared. “Could happen again,” he tries to force as much of an explanation into his tone as he can with the few words he can manage. 

“Over my dead body.” Connor says it with such fierce sincerity that Hank feels his chest relax a few minor degrees. If nothing else, Connor will stay; the rest will come. Hank is certain Connor will extract his pound of flesh as soon as Hank can carry on normal conversation, but, for now, he can breathe.

Feeling emboldened, Hank tries to push, “Still angry?”

“Furious,” is Connor’s immediate answer, but his tone tips closer to gentle than severe.

“Forgive me?”

The question lingers in the air before Connor breathes out a superfluous sigh, “In time.”

Hank startles slightly at Connor shifting to lean back against the head of the bed next to him. It’s cramped and awkward, but Connor stroking the back of his fingers across Hank’s cheek erases any discomfort. Hank’s body sings in relief at the contact.

Hank rolls onto his uninjured side, feeling his damaged shoulder scream in protest at such rapid movement. He sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth as Connor slots in behind him. Hank can feel Connor’s simulated breath glide across the skin of his neck as he brings his forehead to rest against the back of Hank’s head.

“Lean on me if it’s more comfortable,” Connor’s words brush over Hank’s ear and he feels himself relax against Connor’s chest as he’s done several times before. The familiarity of it makes Hank’s chest contract in a mix of fondness and regret at his own stupidity.

The heart rate monitor begins to tick upward and Hank can feel tears that he doesn’t wholly understand start to run down his face. Connor lifts his hand to Hank’s head and runs his fingers through his hair, making gentle shushing sounds as Hank releases some of the grief he’s held close to his chest for too long. Emotionally drained and physically spent, Hank feels exhaustion tug at his eyelids as the sensation of Connor’s fingers in his hair lulls him to sleep.


	2. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes all of thirty minutes back in his house for Hank to decide that he hates Connor playing nursemaid to him. 
> 
> “I am not eating that,” he stares down at the bowl Connor placed in front of him. It is overwhelmingly green and Hank has a strict policy regarding anything Connor makes that is mostly green: don’t fucking eat it. 
> 
> “It’s just a salad, Hank. It won’t kill you. The nurse was quite clear. You need to eat a healthy diet to promote faster healing. Don’t you want to get your arm out of that sling?” Hank knows Connor’s logic is sound, but salads are not the only healthy food on the planet. Hank says as much, but Connor’s response is to look him dead in the eye while prodding the bowl toward him with one long forefinger. The action speaks volumes; Hank will eat what Connor gives him. 
> 
> __
> 
> Connor and Hank have _the talk_ about Hank's bad behavior. Hank apologizes. Hank's still gonna have to eat a lot of salad before Connor is satisfied.

If Hank didn’t know any better, he would think Connor was taking vindictive pleasure in the recovery process. He was on strict orders from his nurse to stay home for three weeks: no work, no exercise—not much of anything that wasn’t exceedingly boring. The drive home from the hospital had been torture. Hank had been shot more times than he cared to admit, and the pain is exactly as he remembered it.

Connor starting in on him didn’t help matters, either. The drive from the hospital to Hank’s house should’ve taken less than twenty minutes, but Connor was taking the scenic route. Which meant driving aimlessly in circles while grilling Hank now that his vocal cords were in working order.

The four days spent in recovery after finally waking up had been a mix of idyllic happiness and fearful trepidation. Connor was keen on Hank making a full recovery so he was overly accommodating and attentive. Hank could tell, however, that Connor was also more than ready to take Hank to task for his behavior. As much as Hank wanted out of the uncomfortable hospital bed, he was also prepared to set up camp and never leave if it meant avoiding _The Talk_ with Connor.

Hank’s hopes that Connor’s anger with him would abate during his hospital stay turned out to be laughable. Unlike humans, Connor has perfect recall. The moments of hurt never cloud over with the passage of time. Hank knows Connor could choose to store the memories away somewhere so they felt less harsh, but Connor isn’t going to let Hank off that easily.

“So,” he begins quietly and Hank’s heartbeat picks up its pace at his tone, “Where would you like to begin?” Connor’s giving him a choice, letting him direct the conversation, but, if past experience is anything to go by, Hank it likely to steer them off a cliff.

“Uh,” Hank vies for more time. In the days that trickled by in the hospital bed, he hadn’t been able to land on a single thing worth saying to Connor as a legitimate explanation. Everything felt too small, too inconsequential to atone for the enormity of what he’d done.

He runs a hand over his beard trying to think before scowling down at the uneven bristles, going slightly cross-eyed. Connor’s eyes cut across at him for a second before turning his attention back to the road. Hank had huffed and complained but eventually handed over his keys to Connor. He can’t drive with one arm anyway. Searching for a silver lining, Hank decides at least this way, Connor can’t stare a hole into the side of his head while they talk.

Connor’s forefinger taps the wheel, punctuating the unspoken _I’m waiting_.

Hank sighs before lumbering into what feels like a giant trap, “I’m sorry.” He’s said it numerous times since waking, and he knows it’s not what Connor wants to hear.

“So you’ve said.” Connor pauses, but, when Hank’s mouth refuses to produce more words, he adds, “Why?”

Hank’s knee-jerk reaction is to scoff at the question. Why shouldn’t he be sorry? He’d made a horrible decision, he’d hurt Connor—the list of all the bad things that resulted from Hank telling Connor to leave went on and on in his mind.

When it becomes clear that Hank can’t answer the question, Connor offers, “I know why I am so angry, now.”

The admission is quiet and startles Hank, “The fuck? You didn’t _know_?”

A humorless smile tugs at the corner of Connor’s mouth, “Oh, I knew I was angry with you for several reasons. I could list them out, but I won’t,” Hank sighs in relief before Connor delivers a far more punishing blow than laying Hank’s many misdeeds bare, “You took away my choice. At some point, you decided your opinion mattered more than mine.”

A frigid silence follows Connor’s words and Hank feels like he can’t breathe, “That’s not, I mean…it wasn’t, uh. It wasn’t like…that,” he finishes lamely.

“Then tell me, what was it like?” Connor’s tone is calm, but Hank wishes he would yell. Yelling matches, Hank knows how to deal with. He’d gained an excellent amount of experience with his ex-wife. Then again, that had ended in disaster. Hank knows Connor’s approach to actually discussing a problem is the healthier option, but he’s not thrilled about it.

“I wanted you to be safe—,” the word isn’t fully out of his mouth before Connor makes a staticky sound of irritation. Hank rankles at it, pressing forward with far less regard than he had a minute prior, “A fucking lunatic was targeting me and leaving my picture at crime scenes. He _killed_ my son. He was going to try and kill you and—,” Hank breaks off, already knowing his reasoning at the time was flawed. The man had targeted Connor, shot him, regardless of Hank’s decision. He huffs before muttering, “I was afraid; I already told you. I panicked.”

“So you decided to try and remove me from the equation altogether?” Hank flops his head back against the headrest.

“Not everything I do or say has a fucking common sense reason behind it, ok? I make mistakes; it’s not like I sat down and made a step by step diagram on how to ruin the best thing in my life,” Connor’s eyes dart over at Hank for a moment, but he remains silent and lets Hank continue, “Christ, kid. How many times am I going to have to fucking apologize before you believe me?”

“Three hundred and fifty-seven,” is Connor’s immediate answer. Hank makes a confused sound and Connor cracks a true smile for the first time in days, “Apologize three hundred and fifty-seven more times and I will believe you.”

Hank’s mouth sags, “Are you…Have you been fucking with me?”

Connor shakes his head, a hint of a grin crinkling his eyes, “No, I am absolutely serious. Say you are sorry three hundred and—,”

“Say the number one more time, and I am going to jump out of this car.” Hank grins at Connor, feeling some of the tension in the car ease out of the way to make room for their banter.

“There’s no need for hyperbole, Hank,” Hank mutters _hypocrite_ before Connor continues in a quieter manner, “and I believed you the first time.” Hank’s hands grip at his knees, trying to get his irritation in check. He doesn’t want to crush the fragile peace by trampling over it like a dumb ox.

“So why’ve you been giving me the third degree?” Connor’s LED whirls yellow for a few seconds, no doubt looking up the colloquialism.

“To understand you better,” Connor ignores Hank’s attempt to interject in irritation, “ _and_ I said I believe you, not that I forgive you,” Connor is quiet for a moment before extending an offer of hope, “Not yet, anyway.”

Hank’s mouth snaps shut. _Time_ , he thinks, forgiveness will come with time. Connor had said as much at the hospital so Hank would have to do his best to accept it. Connor turns the car around and follows a route that Hank recognizes. He’s not sure what he said to help heal the giant wound he’d made, but it must be enough for Connor for now.

It takes all of thirty minutes back in his house for Hank to decide that he hates Connor playing nursemaid to him.

“I am not eating that,” he stares down at the bowl Connor placed in front of him. It is overwhelmingly green and Hank has a strict policy regarding anything Connor makes that is mostly green: don’t fucking eat it.

“It’s just a salad, Hank. It won’t kill you. The nurse was quite clear. You need to eat a healthy diet to promote faster healing. Don’t you want to get your arm out of that sling?” Hank knows Connor’s logic is sound, but salads are not the only healthy food on the planet. Hank says as much, but Connor’s response is to look him dead in the eye while prodding the bowl toward him with one long forefinger. The action speaks volumes; Hank will eat what Connor gives him.

Not easily cowed, Hank rises imperiously and stomps over to the cabinets in search of something else. Connor watches him with quiet amusement, waiting. This doesn’t bode well and Hank knows it. Cautiously pulling back a cabinet door that usually houses sugary cereal and snacks that contained far too much sodium, Hank makes a small noise of incredulity. It’s empty. He shuffles over to another cabinet and finds it empty as well.

“Connor, where is all of my food?” Connor knits his hands together while steepling his forefingers and gesturing at the high cabinets above his windows. Hank didn’t understand the point of those half-sized cabinets and never bothered to put anything in them in the past. Even with his significant height, he needed a stool or chair to access them.

“When did you do all this?” Hank asks suspiciously. Connor had spent the last several days by his side; there was no way he had acted alone.

“I asked the Captain to pick up a few things. He dropped them off when he returned Sumo.” Shooting a dirty look at Connor, he checks the refrigerator next. It’s not empty, but yogurt, fresh fruits, and vegetables have replaced his beer and assortment of leftover takeout. Hank turns to face Connor, feeling the first trickles of anger filter into his veins.

“I can feed myself,” he says in a near growl.

Unfazed, Connor tilts his head and gives him a small smile, “History would suggest otherwise.”

Realizing that this approach is futile, Hank switches tactics. He angles his head toward the upper cabinets out of easy reach, “Connor, you’re shorter than me.”

Connor has his answer ready, “I am not impaired by a bullet wound. I am more than capable of climbing to reach them.”

“I could just get a chair,” Hank points out, but Connor’s smug expression doesn’t waiver.

“Good luck with that.”

Hank’s head jerks to eye his chairs with suspicion, “If you nailed my chairs to the floor, I’m going to kill you.”

“Nothing quite so dramatic.” Connor shifts Hank’s salad bowl slightly while rearranging his fork.

“Then what’s stopping me from climbing up there whenever you’re not around?” Hank asks, feeling very much like a child and not caring one bit. This is his house and he will eat what he’s wants, dammit.

“Because I asked you not to.” Hank feels his fight leave him like a balloon collapsing on itself. Connor had played his hand well; as much as Hank would rather be eating a greasy burger, he’s in much more of a hurry to be back in Connor’s good graces. If that means eating green things, so be it. He shuffles over to his seat and sits with as much ill humor as he can manage without jostling his injured shoulder before stabbing at his salad as if it insulted him.

He eats in silence, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the salad is actually decent as far as mixed greens go. Connor had included chicken, mandarin oranges, and some little crunchy things that Hank can’t pull the name for. It has some kind of dressing on it as well, so it isn’t the dry tasteless meal Hank was expecting.

“How’s the vinaigrette?” Connor asks coyly, perfectly aware that Hank is enjoying the salad despite himself.

Hank casts him a dirty look from beneath his hair before muttering, “Shut up.”

The next several days continue in this fashion, with Connor forcing more salads on Hank in one week than he’d eaten in his entire lifetime.

They’re at the table arguing over the latest salad when the doorbell rings and Connor places his hand over Hank’s before rising to answer it himself, “Good afternoon, Captain.” Hank startles at realizing Fowler is at his house, but he shouldn’t be surprised. There’s a lot of protocol that follows getting shot not to mention their complicated friendship.

Fowler nods at Connor before raising a hand in Hank’s direction. He shrugs out of his coat before heading toward the kitchen. He eyes the remains of Hank’s salad in surprise before asking, “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I want a burger,” Hank answers gruffly. Fowler gives a low chuckle before Hank responds, “It hurts like hell if I don’t stay on top of my pain pills. Nurse Connor over there took over for me after the second time I took ‘em fifteen minutes late.” Hank rolls his eyes to cover the soft pang of affection that grips him. He looks down at the salad feeling less irritated about it.

“Look, I don’t want to waste your time with small talk. You know the drill for these sorts of things. You need to talk with a therapist, check the boxes, yadda yadda, before you can come back.” Fowler looks distinctly uncomfortable having this conversation as if he thinks Hank will protest.

Hank sighs but waves at the Captain to go on. Still, Fowler hesitates before finally saying, “There’s been talk of early retirement.” Were it not for the ache in his shoulder, Hank would’ve launched to his feet. He’s about to argue when Jeffrey beats him to the punch, “I said it wasn’t going to happen unless you wanted it to. There’s no pressure and I’ll stand by you either way.” Hank clears his throat and says a gruff _thanks_ at that. He knows Jeffrey has stuck his neck out for him several times. As strained as their friendship had become over the years, he appreciates it.

With the work talk out of the way, Hank starts in on the Captain about the food situation, “I hear it’s partially your fault I’m eating rabbit food,” he sweeps his hand over his salad to underscore his point.

Fowler laughs and points at Connor, “He didn’t leave me much choice. Besides, I got a peek at the crap you prefer. How are you not a walking pillar of salt by now?” Connor let’s out a gloating _Ha!_ that Hank ignores.

The Captain catches them up on what they’ve missed while Hank’s been in the hospital, “Reed is kind of starting to lose it. I know you’ve got strict orders not to return to work for three weeks, Hank…” he trails off and eyes Connor with a purpose. “I know policy says you rate three weeks after a gunshot injury, but you’re not exactly made of flesh and bone. I understand if you want to take the full three, it’s your due, but we could use you. We’re struggling.”

Connor lets the inelegant comment go mostly because he knows the Captain is right. His physical body was fine within 24 hours of locating the necessary parts for repair. He met with a therapist as was expected of him once Hank had woken up, but she told him he was good to go within fifteen minutes of meeting him. _Your trauma is not related to yourself_ she had said. They discussed Hank and what had led up to the shooting. She advised him to address the emotional tension with Hank as soon as possible for both of their benefits, but that he need not return to talk with her unless he wanted to. Hank has yet to go and won’t until his body further recovers.

Seeing Connor’s obvious distress at leaving Hank, Fowler interrupts his train of thought, “I know Hank still needs you and likely will for at least another week. How about you check in then and we’ll go from there?” Connor agrees to the compromise, feeling his stress levels reduce dramatically.

When Fowler leaves, Hank stands and stretches with a grimace. Connor eyes him with concern before Hank takes a comical sniff at the armpit of his good arm, “I stink,” he says with a smile. A small grin tugs at Connor’s mouth as he sets about cleaning up Hank’s lunch mess.

“Call for me if you need help,” Connor says to him as he heads off in the direction of the shower. Hank flaps his hand at him in acknowledgment before turning down the hall. His bathroom mirror is still littered with post-it notes here and there. He can see Connor added a few and Hank’s heart tightens painfully at one in particular.

_You are enough._

He’s doesn’t know when Connor wrote it and he’s not sure if he wants to find out. Was the note meant for Hank or for Connor? Hank knows Connor stayed in the house when he pushed him away so it’s a toss-up. Regardless, he decides he likes the sentiment and picks up the nearby pen to underline it.

Undressing continues to be a challenge for Hank with or without Connor’s help. With Connor, it’s easier and less painful, but it makes him feel like a weak, pathetic man. He shooed Connor away after the first time and Connor’s respected this boundary thus far.

Hank spends several minutes in the shower letting the hot water wash off the antiseptic smell that lingers around his waterproof dressing. He soaps up the loofa, but his arm sags uselessly at his side. He feels himself growing drowsy—a side effect of the pain medication Connor doles out to him at exact intervals in precise dosages. The bathroom door opening rouses him out of his half-sleep state. Connor pulls back the shower curtain and regards Hank with a curious expression. 

Since Hank awoke in the hospital, Connor has been stingy with physical affection. Hank understands why, but it’s starting to wear on him emotionally. He wants the easy touches Connor used to give freely when they were at home. A hand on Hank’s wrist, a stroke of his beard, a hug from behind. At first, these little displays made Hank uncomfortable, not accustomed to being touched. He eventually got used to them and at some point acceptance transformed into want.

Seeing Connor standing naked outside of the shower made his heart hum.

“Your heart rate dropped to levels indicating sleep. I didn’t think it would be wise to leave you unattended in the shower,” Connor gives his medical reason for being there but gives no explanation for his nakedness. In one graceful maneuver, he steps into the shower in front of Hank, pulling the loofa from his hand. “Allow me?” His hand rises and hovers over Hank’s chest waiting for permission.

Hank’s rapid nodding must be comical, but Connor’s expression remains carefully neutral. It’s an overture of moving forward and Hank tries his best not to ruin it by speaking or popping an untimely boner. The thought makes him exhale a stuttered laugh through his nose. Connor ignores it and goes about washing Hank’s chest with careful tenderness. Hank’s missed how soothing Connor can be, how feather soft his touch feels when he’s being gentle.

Connor turns Hank slowly and goes to work on his back. After several minutes, Hank breaks the silence, “Everything alright back there?”

Connor offers a simple, “Yes,” before sighing, his hand moving in slower and slower circles, “I’m thinking.”

When he doesn’t explain himself any further, Hank asks, “About what?”

“What I want,” he says it quietly, his hand going completely still. Hank’s regret at prodding is immediate, and Connor’s answer makes his skin freeze despite the heat of the shower.

Still, Hank is no coward and he doesn’t want Connor to stay out of pity. He braces himself mentally before asking, “And what’s that?”

Connor’s response is to drop the loofa to the ground before snaking his arms carefully around Hank’s body. His hands come to rest on Hank’s chest before bringing his torso flush to Hank’s back. He feels Connor press his cheek against his neck, his mouth so close to his skin that Hank can feel when he speaks, “I don’t want to be angry with you anymore. How do I make it go away?”

Whatever Hank was expecting, it wasn’t this. He forgets that Connor is new to feeling emotions. He imagines it must be frustrating to experience them without any understanding of how to direct them. “It’s not something you can just delete,” Hank says finally. “It takes time.”

Connor huffs at the answer, dissatisfied that there isn’t a way for him to dump his anger into a trashcan. Hank laughs slightly before adding, “It helps if I don’t act like a giant asshole.” It’s Connor’s turn to laugh before Hank adds, “Moments like this help, too,” and Connor agrees quietly.

Hank turns back around to face Connor, feeling timid about showing affection despite the fact that they’re both naked. His good arm drifts to rest on Connor’s waist while he worries at his bottom lip, trying to decide if it’s too soon to push. Connor’s thumb rises to brush against his lip, pulling it free from Hank’s teeth. His hand drifts to tangle in Hank’s hair before pulling him down in a gentle kiss. It’s chaste and sweet and more than Hank had hoped for.

Connor breaks away first and moves to shut off the water, “Let’s do something about this beard.” Hank’s hand strokes the uneven bristles and he steps out of the shower after Connor. He lets Connor dry him before wrapping the towel around him and navigating him to sit on the toilet lid. Hank watches Connor sift through his grooming bag, pulling out clippers, several guard clips, a comb, and other items needed for grooming facial hair.

Connor lightly presses his first two fingers under Hank’s chin, lifting his head slightly, before he starts running a comb through his beard. Eyeing Hank’s face, he selects the appropriate clip to keep Hank’s beard long without being unkempt. As he approaches closer to Hank’s neck and cheeks, he shortens the clip for a neat fade. After free hand trimming a few stragglers, Connor picks of the razor and tilts Hank’s head far back.

Up to this point, Hank had been more charmed by Connor’s grooming him than anything else, but the sight of him holding a razor is off-putting. Connor watches the slow bob of Hank’s Adam’s apple before deftly straddling his lap and pressing a kiss to it. “Relax, Hank. If I was going to kill you, I would’ve done it by now and in a far more creative way.” He says it with a smirk and Hank tries to splutter a reply, but Connor silences him with the slight pressure of his fingers against his lips.

Connor tilt’s Hank’s head again, lathering on shaving cream and muttering, “Neckbeard must go.” Hank stifles a laugh, realizing with frightening clarity that Connor’s never shaved a man before and that sudden movements could result in heavy nicking. When Connor pronounces himself satisfied, he extricates himself from Hank’s lap so Hank can inspect his face in the mirror. He looks like himself but less scruffy.

“Nice job, kid,” he mutters, feeling shy. Connor’s fingers run a warm stripe down his cheek, tracing the edge of his beard.

“Let’s get you in bed,” Connor murmurs before pressing a guiding hand against Hank’s back.

“It’s 2:30 in the afternoon,” Hank protests, but he lets Connor steer him regardless. The painkillers are tugging at his consciousness, demanding that he rest. Connor helps Hank get as comfortable as he can while slightly elevated on too many pillows.

Connor goes to leave when Hank makes a grab for his hand, realizing he hasn’t slept alone since waking up in the hospital. Hank feels slender fingers close around his and tense slightly before Connor turns his head to look over his shoulder at him.

“Stay?” He tries his best not to sound like a wounded animal, but something desperate tangles into his tone nonetheless. Connor’s LED spins a single rapid yellow circuit before returning to blue, his decision made. After some rearranging, he settles himself on his side against the stack of pillows, head resting on his arm while regarding Hank.

“Sleep,” he says softly with a smile before settling his hand on Hank’s chest, well away from his injury. Hank’s breathing begins to slow as he brings his own hand to rest on top of Connor’s.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as the warmth of drug-induced sleep washes over him.

“I know,” Connor says back quietly, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Hank’s chest.

“Forgive me?” He asks again, certain he knows the answer, but he has to try.

“Soon,” Connor answers before leaning forward to press a kiss to Hank’s temple.


	3. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor still isn’t looking him in the face, his eyes roving to take in as much of Hank’s body as he can. He turns Hank around to scrub lightly as his back, pausing to trace over old scars, “Your body tells a story that I never tire of reading.” 
> 
> “Connor, why—I don’t mind, but—why are you telling me these things?” Hank feels a little weak and at a loss for how to handle the veneration after weeks of stilted attempts at reinstating intimacy.
> 
> Connor goes quiet but his hands continue to move, running soapy streaks down Hank’s arms and over his hands. Hank’s on the verge of asking again when Connor speaks, “Anger is such a strange thing. Some days, I hardly feel it at all. It flitters away to nest in the recesses of code I never have a reason to touch. Other days, you wake up and the sight of your face makes me want to throw things.” 
> 
> __
> 
> They make up. It's super soft and sweet. Brace yourself for cavities.

The second week passes in a slow, uncomfortable trickle of hours for Hank. Connor, ever mindful of Hank’s health, is trying to wean him off the pain medication with varying degrees of success.

“Just give me the damn pill,” Hank takes a swipe at the bottle in Connor’s hand, and his shoulder throbs at him angrily. He gestures at it to underscore his point, “See? It fucking hurts.” Hank’s shoulder always seems to bother him worse in the evening.

Connor’s response is to place the little pill bottle above the refrigerator before offering, “You can take an ibuprofen if you want. You’re not having another Percocet until tomorrow morning.” Hank’s eyes flick to the refrigerator and back to Connor. Connor sees it and scowls, “Don’t even think about it. Even without a shoulder injury, I am faster than you.” Hank grumbles about uppity android pill fascists before caving and asking for the ibuprofen.

Connor shakes out the appropriate dosage and hands it to Hank along with a glass of water before offering, “Besides potential addiction, taking an excess of narcotics can result in constipation.”

Hank chokes loudly on his water before spluttering, “Stay out of my bathroom business, thank you.”

Connor, ignoring Hank’s obvious embarrassment, presses on mercilessly, “If you’re feeling backed up, I could purchase some laxatives for you or perhaps an enem—”

The word isn’t fully out of Connor’s mouth before Hank interrupts him, “No way in fucking hell are you giving me an enema.”

Connor tilts his head, smiling slightly, “I never indicated I would be the one to administer it, but your vote of confidence in my capability to do so is touching.” The flush that had consumed Hank’s face at the start of the conversation deepens several shades.

Sufficiently deterred from asking for prescription-strength pain medication, Hank sits on the couch and changes the subject, “Given any more thought to going back to work?” Connor’s mouth goes into a thin line, as Hank knew it would. Connor doesn’t want to go back to the precinct before Hank, but the decision to stay at home becomes more selfish by the day. Hank’s well enough to care for himself while Connor is gone and the number of cases has steadily grown to an intimidating workload. Connor shakes his head lightly before sitting next to Hank.

“It’s just a week, Connor, and then I’ll be back with you. Doing paperwork,” Hank’s face contorts at the thought and Connor laughs.

“True, but I’m almost 100% certain you will order as much Chinese takeout as possible the second I am out the door.” Connor’s eyes cut across the couch at Hank, looking as if he’s constructing the likelihood of his hypothesis.

Hank leans away from Connor, pressing a hand to his chest in mock outrage, “You wound me, Connor. I would never.” Hank’s attempt to keep a straight face fails miserably.

“You’ve been watching too many soap operas, Hank,” Hank sees the small smile tugging at Connor’s mouth and rushes to defend his newfound hobby of binge-watching melodramas.

“Douche Lord McFuckface does not deserve Madam Francesca,” Hank says it with such vehemence that Connor makes a mental note to pay more attention to how many soap operas Hank watches in any given day.

Connor sighs, resigned to repeat himself on this matter, “Hank, those are not their names. The show is also in Spanish, a language you do not speak, so you have no idea what is going on anyway.”

“His face is fucky and I don’t like it. She’s a wonderful lady and he doesn’t appreciate her.”

Connor eyes Hank for a moment before saying wryly, “Unlike you, I have a perfect grasp of the Spanish language,” Hank rolls his eyes and mumbles _showoff_ before Connor continues, “Would you like me to tell you what your Francesca has been up to?”

Hank points his finger at Connor as if it’s a weapon, “Don’t you dare ruin this for me. Madam Francesca can do no wrong.” Hank must realize how ridiculous he sounds because he sighs and mutters, “I _really_ need to get back to work.”

Connor bolts upright suddenly, startling Hank and making him wince at the sudden jolting motion. “Detective Reed is coming to visit.”

“Visit? The fuck’s he gonna do, bring me flowers?” Hank asks it with ill grace as he rubs lightly at his recovering shoulder.

Connor starts to answer, but someone pressing the doorbell three times in quick succession interrupts him, “I imagine that is Detective Reed. You can ask him yourself.”

When Connor pulls the door wide, Reed stomps in without so much as a greeting, “Nice heads up there, Reed. Did you text Connor from my driveway?” Gavin glowers at him darkly and Hank notices that Reed looks like absolute shit. His hair appears unwashed, his face is at least five days past its last shave, and the bags under his eyes look ready to go on a three-week vacation, “Christ, man. What happened to you?”

Gavin collapses with limited grace onto a chair, one leg dangling over the armrest. His head flops back and Hank’s almost certain the man’s fallen asleep because it takes him several moments too long to answer. “I haven’t had a day off in two weeks, I haven’t done laundry in three weeks, and the last time I took a shower I may have washed my hair with flea shampoo. I’m not sure.”

Connor’s face is blank, but his eyes are a touch too wide. He nods his head in Gavin’s direction and gives Hank a meaningful look, “Would you like a coffee, detective?” Both Hank and Reed’s heads snap in Connor’s direction. Reed has tried time and again to force Connor to serve him with zero success. Connor offering to get Gavin anything could herald the apocalypse. Before Gavin’s jaw can scrape the floor, Connor offers, “It’s our fault you’re in this situation. It seems the least I could do.”

Gavin’s hackles rise at the comment, “The _least_ you can do is come the fuck back to work.”

Hank surges to his feet and immediately regrets it. His shoulder is feeling much better compared to when he first woke up in the hospital, but abrupt movements are still unpleasant. “You don’t talk to him like that. You don’t invite yourself over to my house for a _visit_ and then shit all over Connor when he tries to do something nice for you.” Four cool fingertips on Hank’s forearm help him reign in his sudden anger. Being in pain most of the time has shortened his fuse considerably.

Connor brings matters to a head quickly, “What is the purpose of your visit, detective?”

Reed sighs audibly before pinching his nose, “Look, I know you could take another week, alright? But fucking don’t,” Hank tries to protest Gavin’s swearing at Connor, but Connor’s hand remains on his arm and tenses slightly.

Reed continues, “I can’t keep going like this, man. No one else is worth a sack of shit when it comes to working android crimes. They wouldn’t know an android audio processor from a thirium pump regulator if their lives depended on it. If I told them a regular lug nut was a micro-version of a thirium pump, they’d believe me. Fuck, they’d probably believe—,” Connor raises his hand to stop Gavin’s ranting. His eyes had glazed over and Connor knew it was best to head him off before he worked himself up into hysterics.

Connor and Hank’s eyes meet and they both know what Connor’s going to say, “I’ll return to the station first thing tomorrow, detective, to assist you.”

Reed’s body physically relaxes and he stumbles over to Connor before pulling him into an awkward embrace. Connor freezes and Hank resists the urge to manhandle Gavin, “Oh, thank God. You have no idea. It’s been awful, and…” Gavin trails off, seeming to realize what he’s doing. With absurd speed, he jumps back from Connor as if he burned him.

“Fuck…don’t, um. Don’t mention. Fuck, I’m leaving. See you tomorrow.” Gavin flees the house as if it is on fire.

When the door closes, a bubble of laughter extracts itself from Hank’s chest, “Gavin fuckin’ Reed _hugged_ you. YOU!” More hysterical laughter follows the statement while Connor looks down at his shirt in distaste.

“I smell like a garbage can,” is Connor’s initial response.

Hank shuffles over and takes a comical sniff, “I’d say more like an ashtray, but I have more life experience with unpleasant smells than you do.” Connor scowls at Hank before taking off down the hallway, “Where’re you going?” Hank calls after him.

Connor begins peeling his shirt off before answering, “Well, I certainly don’t intend to marinate in this odor longer than necessary.” Hank starts to follow him and then stops, a question forming in the back of his mind that he can’t bring himself to ask. He turns his head to look out at the living room instead of Connor’s retreating back.

They had made strides in the past week toward reestablishing peace. Some things, however, remained off limits. Connor didn’t usually join Hank in the shower, and, on the infrequent occasion Connor needed to rinse off, he’d made it clear Hank wasn’t to tag along. He was never severe or cruel, but his answer was always, “Not tonight, Hank.” He’d touch his cheek then turn and close the door. It may as well have been a cement wall for how shut out it made Hank feel.

Connor’s hand slipping into his surprises him. His eyes drag up from the floor to meet Connor’s gaze and he finds a warm smile there, “Do you want to come with me?”

Hank’s brain takes a few slow rolls before it figures out what Connor is asking him, “Yeah, if you want me to.” A gentle tug from Connor is all the answer he needs. He goes to take off his shirt, but a touch from Connor stays his hand.

Connor leads him into the bathroom and guides him to sit on the edge of the tub. Deft fingers work their way down Hank’s loud, patterned button-down before carefully easing it over his recovering shoulder. Hank normally doesn’t like Connor to help him get undressed because it makes him feel like an invalid, but Connor’s been parsimonious with touch and Hank is greedy for it. He can feel something charged beneath Connor’s fingers and he wonders if Connor’s missed touching him as much as Hank has.

When Connor deems the water is warm enough, he steps into it and beckons for Hank. Hank’s not sure what to expect and is afraid to hope and be wrong. Connor pulls him close and bends his head to bury his face into Hank’s neck.

He hears Connor sniff him loudly, “Connor…whatcha doing?” Connor pulls his face back to look at Hank before answering, “You do not smell like an ashtray.”

Hank laughs out an amused _Thanks_ before Connor explains, “The last person to hug me was detective Reed and this felt very…wrong. I do not want to smell like him.” Connor’s arms curls around Hank’s back, pulling their bodies as close together as possible, “He didn’t feel right. His body was too hard.”

Hank wheezes out a, “Gee, thanks,” which earns him a scowl from Connor.

“He was too jagged, too different,” how mouth appears stuck in a frown, “and he smelled repugnant.” Connor’s face is back in Hank’s neck and Hank lets his arms drift to wrap around Connor’s waist. When Connor doesn’t go stiff or object to the contact, Hank lets his hands sink down to the swell of his ass. Connor lets out a little _hmph_ sound but doesn’t otherwise complain. Hank knows better than to push his luck so he sets his mind to memorizing everything about this moment instead.

After a moment, Hank says, “I didn’t think you experienced smell like that. I’ve seen you wade through garbage heaps.”

Connor mumbles into his neck, “I can still identify when something smells unpleasant. Like detective Reed.” Connor extricates himself and sets about vigorously scrubbing at his arms.

Hank smiles at the display, “I don’t think he’s contagious, Connor. At this rate, you’re gonna scrub off your skin.”

Slowing his frantic ablutions slightly, Connor replies, “One can never be too careful.” He turns and offers the loofa to Hank, who responds by pulling Connor’s hand to his chest.

“You do it,” Hank says quietly, asking more than telling. Connor’s arm remains frozen while his gaze flicks back and forth between Hank’s face and his own hand. The moment stretches into something taut and uncomfortable. Hank can tell an excuse is forming on Connor’s tongue when he heads him off at the pass. “Please,” he says it quietly and is slightly more than horrified to hear the desperate longing in his tone.

Connor’s fingers tense against Hank’s sternum before they begin to move slowly, drawing lazy streaks of bubbles across Hank’s upper body. Carefully avoiding the patch of bandaging still covering his wound, Connor murmurs, “So different than Reed, so much _better_.” Connor’s fingers drag through the soapy foam, leaving tantalizing tingles in their wake. His hands go wide over Hank’s chest before squeezing lightly, “You’re softer in some places but more solid overall—strength without the ostentation. He felt fragile; you feel like home.”

Hank tries to catch Connor’s eyes, but his monologue over Hank’s body isn’t complete, “I have felt your thighs tense around me and sensed the power there. If I were a human, you could crush me with them.” Connor underscores his point by dragging a hand up Hank’s outer thigh, synthetic fingernails pressing into the flesh. Hank knows Connor likes his body, but he’s never heard him talk about it like this; like Hank is worth looking at for extended periods of time.

Connor still isn’t looking him in the face, his eyes roving to take in as much of Hank’s body as he can. He turns Hank around to scrub lightly as his back, pausing to trace over old scars, “Your body tells a story that I never tire of reading.”

“Connor, why—I don’t mind, but—why are you telling me these things?” Hank feels a little weak and at a loss for how to handle the veneration after weeks of stilted attempts at reinstating intimacy. 

Connor goes quiet but his hands continue to move, running soapy streaks down Hank’s arms and over his hands. Hank’s on the verge of asking again when Connor speaks, “Anger is such a strange thing. Some days, I hardly feel it at all. It flitters away to nest in the recesses of code I never have a reason to touch. Other days, you wake up and the sight of your face makes me want to throw things.”

“Pretty sure you chucking things would put holes in my walls,” Hank mutters, turning around to look at Connor’s face. His expression is serious but thoughtful.

“I wasn’t sure how I was going to get around it. It was always _there_ waiting to spring at me when I least expected it.” Hank catches Connor’s use of the past tense.

“Figured it out, did you?” He tugs at Connor, wanting to feel him against his skin again. Connor relents and pulls Hank firmly against him, chest to chest.

“I have. When Detective Reed hugged me, my programming reacted…fiercely. I did not like it. In my frustration with you, I was overlooking the things I love about you,” Connor’s fingers drift to Hank’s face before running a thumb across his lower lip.

Connor’s eyes appear to be searching for the right words amidst the steam of the shower, “Feeling Detective Reed hug me…I wanted it to be you. I have no desire to comfort Gavin. I don’t want him to touch me. I realized I had what I wanted, what I was missing, right in front of me. I thought my anger and my love couldn’t coexist; I thought it had to be one or the other. I didn’t understand.”

Hank’s heart and lungs are at war with each other, one refusing to operate in tandem with the other. His heart throbs painfully while his lungs neglect to take in air. Connor’s gaze doesn’t waver as he waits for Hank to get his organs under control. Finally, Hank asks quietly, “What didn’t you understand?”

A small, affectionate smile spreads across Connor’s lips before he answers, “That I can love you and want to throttle you at the same time.” The urge to laugh and cry simultaneously seize Hank’s body. Relief, deep and warm, wraps around him like a cloak against a winter storm. He sags against Connor, but Connor stands firm, holding up Hank’s weight.

“I’ve missed you,” Connor mutters into Hank’s skin, “I’ve missed this.”

Hank draws in a shaky breath, “Me too. I’m so sorr—,” Connor’s hand ghosts up to Hank’s mouth to silence him with the gentle pressure of his fingers.

“I know,” he says quietly, pressing soft kisses against Hank’s neck.

Conscious of his shoulder, Hank wraps his arms around Connor, enveloping him like an oversized coat, “ _Forgive me_.” This time, it’s not a question; it’s a desperate plea.

“Do you love me?” The question takes Hank by surprise. He’s already heard Connor say as much about his feelings for Hank, but producing the words is difficult no matter how vividly he knows them to be true. Even so, he owes Connor this much, “I do.”

Hank can feel Connor smile into his skin, “Then that’s enough for me.”

Connor disentangles himself from Hank’s embrace before shutting off the shower. Hank grouses, “I didn’t wash my hair,” but his face wears a goofy grin.

Connor retrieves their towels before countering, “You weren’t the one who smelled like tar and nicotine.” Connor goes rigid for a moment before shuddering, “I hope I don’t have to _thank_ Detective Reed to his face.”

Hank laughs loudly, feeling humor course fully through his body for the first time in weeks, “Nah, I think Gavin would prefer it if you didn’t mention the hug to anyone ever.” Hank’s expression increases in amusement, “Then again, his reaction to you telling him that his smelly hug made you realize your undying love for me would probably be a sight to behold.”

Connor rolls his eyes, “ _Always_ with the hyperbole, Hank.” Hank grins a wide, gap-toothed smile.

“Always,” is his cocky reply, but his eyes shine with fondness as he watches Connor dry off his body. Connor wraps a towel around Hank, pulling him closer. Hank presses his forehead to Connor’s, thanking God for making Gavin Reed a ratbag chain smoker.

“I love you,” he tries the words out loud, face flushing hideously, but he finds the sentiment feels pleasant on his tongue. The smile that lights up Connor’s face is worth every fraught moment that got them to here.

Hank reaches for his clothes, but Connor pulls him out of the room, “Leave them,” he says simply. Shocked at Connor leaving dirty clothes on the floor, Hank asks, “You feeling alright?”

Connor throws a small smile over his shoulder, “Never better.” With practiced care and ease, Connor tucks Hank into bed so he can rest comfortably despite his injury.

“Connor, I’m naked.” Hank gestures at his blanketed body before Connor flick off the lights and slips into bed next to him.

“I know, so am I,” is the only explanation Connor gives.

Hank huffs at him, “Connor, the A/C is on—I’ll get cold.” The last word isn’t out of his mouth before he feels Connor’s body increase in warmth next to him. He mutters _showoff_ but doesn’t bother to hide the smile on his face. Hank feels Connor’s fingers tracing nonsense shapes into his skin as sleep sneaks in to claim him.


	4. Old Habits Die Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor’s other hand moves to grip Hank’s hair, holding his head in place. He’s tonguing him so fiercely, Hank wonders if he has tonsils anymore. When Connor breaks the kiss, he’s exhaling heat to cool his processors and his head is bowed. Hank’s lips press to his forehead, and he feels warmth there.
> 
> Just as his brain cracks open the door to more intimate thoughts, Connor’s voice slicing through him slams it shut, “Hank Anderson.” Full name, oh boy. “Why do I detect elevated levels of sodium and sugar in your saliva?”
> 
>  _Fuck_.
> 
> __
> 
> Connor goes back to work. Hank tries to sneak a burger. Connor rewards Hank's bad behavior.

Connor’s first day back at work doesn’t go quite how Hank imagined it. At first, he thought Connor had deleted all of his takeout delivery numbers from his phone. When Hank went to punch one in by memory, a contact popped up, re-named to _Don’t Do It, Hank_. Upon further inspection, Hank discovered many other relabeled entries including _This Is Too Much Sodium_ and _Do You Want to Have a Heart Attack?_

The morning had been rough. Connor was fully prepared to renege on his promise to Reed when he calculated the probability of Hank taking his pain pill sooner than he was supposed to.

“There is a 63% probability that you will take it half an hour too soon. The likelihood increases to 73% for fifteen minutes.” Hank tried his best not to laugh, but Connor noticed his smile, “It’s not funny!”

Hank’s reply was, “Noooo, not at all,” and Connor had huffed into the bathroom for ten minutes. Hank wasn’t sure what Connor had been doing in there since he had no need to shave, brush his teeth, or make use of the toilet.

Now that he’s thinking of it, he rises to find out. His shoulder throbs at him for a Percocet, but his promise to Connor stays his hand. He heads off for the bathroom instead of the kitchen medicine cabinet.

Connor, as it turns out, had been writing several hundred notes. Connor’s voice saying _hyperbole_ skitters at the back of Hank’s mind and he amends his number to dozens of notes. Some appear to be personal, but others he left for Hank. The note declaring _I love you_ makes him blush furiously before he decides he’s done scrutinizing his bathroom for the day.

It takes Hank all of an hour to become painfully bored. He’s wondering how he’s going to survive another week of mooching around his house alone when his phone vibrates. At first, he thinks it’s a phone call for how rapidly it’s vibrating. When he looks at the screen, however, he realizes he’s getting a stream of consciousness from Connor’s brain.

“Fucking hell, Connor,” he mutters when he sees a red bubble indicating he has 103 unread messages. Reading them proves to be much more entertaining than he expected.

_Detective Reed still hasn’t bathed._

_Hank, he smells so bad. How can he smell this bad?_

_Oh, dear. He noticed me make a face._

_I’m wearing my most contrite expression. I think he’s buying it. I’m not sure; I’m not devoting any processing power to this tiny, angry man._

_If detective Reed were a dog, he would be one of the small ones that bark incessantly. Like a Yorkie or a Pekinese._

Hank scrolls through the rest of them, pausing to laugh at the more amusing anecdotes. The smile drops from his face when he reads the last message.

_I meal prepped while you were sleeping. There are several salads in the refrigerator that should last you through the week._

Hank knows Connor is trying to be helpful so that Hank doesn’t have to strain himself without Connor around. He also knows Connor is trying to control his diet from across town. When lunchtime finally rolls around, Hank casts a dirty look at the refrigerator as if it was in cahoots with Connor. After nearly two straight weeks of some form of salad of vegetable-dominant meals, Hank is ready for a salt-heavy calorie fest.

Hank pulls out his phone and dials _This is Too Much Sodium_. He’s pleased when the familiar gravelly tone of Tammy Faye grates out at him, “Aunt Mae’s Pub ‘N’ Grub, what can I getcha?” Hank can almost taste the burger now and he swallows more saliva than he cares to admit before speaking.

“Hiya, Tammy. It’s Han—,” He doesn’t even get his name out before Tammy is tearing into him.

“Oh, naw. Not today, Anderson. I already had that bot of yours come around. We’s not givin’ you nuthin’.” Mild shock at the amount of effort Connor has put into his campaign of Eat All the Salads rapidly transforms into irritation.  

“Tammy Faye, I’ve been ordering from this diner for years. I’ve overlooked plenty of things worthy of health code citations—”

She cuts him off again, not showing any signs of relenting, “Don’t care. No can do. The bot is a helluva lot scarier than you.” Hank rankles at her continued use of _bot_ to describe Connor and her ongoing refusal to serve him.

“Fuckin’ hell, Tam. Isn’t the customer always right?” He hears her snort and he knows it’s a lost cause.

“Not when the customer lives with a smart mouth bot that threatens to shut our shit down if we give you so much as one french fry.” Hank seriously doubts Connor used the phrase _shut your shit down_ to anyone, but Hank can easily see him implying as much.

Hank sighs, raising the white flag, “Alright, alright. Thanks, Tammy. Maybe another time.” He hears her mutter _not likely_ before the line goes dead. Not ready to give up, Hank tries all of the remaining numbers in his phone that Connor dutifully renamed to deter him. After half an hour, Hank’s ready to give it up as a lost cause and eat one of the salads.

A sudden idea bursts into life, and he hastily grabs his phone. Connor may have paid a visit to all of Hank’s usual haunts, but he doubts he hit every single place in town. Picking the first unfamiliar name of the list that offers burgers and delivery, Hank strikes gold, “Yeah, I’d like to order a large number nine with an extra fry and a cookies and cream malt.” _Go big or go home_ , Hank thinks to himself.

“Sure, that’ll be $14.97. Expect delivery in about ten minutes.” Hank thinks about paying over the phone but realizes that’s a fast way to getting caught. If Connor saw his credit card bill…

Hank recognizes that he’s behaving like a junkie trying to get a fix, but he doesn’t care. He hasn’t tasted a burger in nearly a month. Hell, he’d lick a used wrapper at this point if it meant ingesting the glorious grease. Trying not to dwell on that uncomfortable thought for too long, Hank shuffles over to the fridge. He pulls out the uppermost salad and peeks inside. It looks like a chef’s salad of sorts, and a brief pang of guilt consumes him. Connor took the time to make this for Hank and here he was getting ready to throw it away.

Fortifying his resolve with the thought of a lovely, greasy burger on its way to him right this second, he tucks the container under his arm and heads outside to the garbage bin. Hank isn’t an amateur when it comes to hiding unwanted trash. When his drinking first grew into excess years ago, he took to throwing the bottles directly into the outside bins. That worked for a time, but his ex-wife found out in the end.

Hank stomps over to his neighbor’s trash can and dumps the contents of the salad container with far too much force. The delivery kid pulls up at that exact moment and Hank’s stare dares the pimple-marked boy to say a single word.

Wisely, the kid hands over the delivery bag before holding out his hand in a silent request for payment. Hank fishes out a $20 and mutters, “Keep the change,” before hightailing it back into the safety of his kitchen. He feels ridiculous, like a teenager sneaking in instead of out. When he peels back the wrapper and the scent of the burger hits him, however, his doubts melt into the background.

The first bite is an extreme let down. Hank grunts in confusion, not understanding the problem. It tastes like a burger—better than half of the crap establishments he used to frequent—but the grease is off-putting. The first swallow sits heavy, unsettling his stomach. He had heard Connor claim time and again that once Hank started eating better, he wouldn’t like the unhealthy food as much, but this was upsetting.

Hank had imagined he would suddenly wake up and not hate salad while no longer craving fried, greasy food. The realization that he still loathes salads but burgers make him queasy is tragic. Hank continues to stuff the burger into his mouth out of spite, determined to eat the entire thing.

He gives up about halfway through and reaches for some fries instead. Again, his stomach issues a quiet protest at the grease and he throws down the fries in his hand after only managing to eat two of them. Eyeballing the malt, he hopes for better success. It’s not greasy so maybe it will go down better?

The sweet relief of sugar hits him instantly. He remembers why he loves all of the terrible food he used to eat whenever he desired before Connor took over his kitchen. His vindication is short lived. In his rush to order as many unhealthy things as possible, Hank had forgotten that he and milk do not get along.

He mumbles, “Oh, fuck,” at the first rumble in his gut, foretelling a bad afternoon to be spent in the bathroom. From his miserable perch on the toilet, Hank can see more of the notes Connor had left on and around the mirror. Guilt tangles with indigestion at some of the sweeter sentiments.

After two hours spent contemplating his life choices so far that day, Hank’s stomach woes relent. Hank pops an antacid for good measure before cleaning up all signs of his lunchtime crimes. Once more, he deposits his trash in the neighbor’s garbage bins, resolving to stick to Connor’s pre-made salads for the rest of the week.

Hank’s shoulder pulses at him angrily; he’d missed his window to take the big guns as he sat dying a miserable dairy-induced death on his toilet. If he takes a Percocet now, he won’t be able to take one before he goes to sleep. Connor would also notice, which added another layer of complication. He pops an 800mg ibuprofen instead, hoping to dull the ache long enough to make it through the evening.

Keys jingling outside the door make Hank nearly jump out of his skin. His eyes flick to the clock. 4:15 shines back at him and he realizes Connor must be home early. Way too early. Hank grabs a glass and fills it with water, hastily gargling it to try to spit away the remaining evidence of his lunchtime perfidy.

He just manages to get his heart rate under control when Connor walks through the door, all smiles, carrying a box loaded with folders.

“I’m home!” he announces unnecessarily in his excitement to be back with Hank; guilt slithers through Hank’s veins. “The backlog wasn’t as bad as I thought. Captain Fowler said I could bring some files home if I wanted to check in on you.” Connor sets the box on the kitchen table before tilting his head and asking, “How was your day?” Hank can hear the anxiousness in his voice; he knows Connor wants to know how Hank fared without him.

If there was ever a time to come clean, this was it, but Hank gives an easy shrug and says, “I missed you.” It’s a true statement; he hadn’t realized quite how much Connor had been doing for him in the previous weeks. Bending to put dirty dishes in the dishwasher had made his shoulder protest with such intensity that Hank had nearly dropped his coffee mug. He also missed having him around all the time. After a moment, Hank adds, “It was alright. Not my preference, but I’ll survive.”

Hank goes to put his empty water glass in the sink. When he turns back around, Connor is in his personal space. His hand glides up to tangle in Hank’s hair before he pulls him down into a kiss. Their kisses since coming home from the hospital had been few and rather chaste, even as Connor’s anger thawed. Connor’s tongue darting across Hank’s lip startles him, but it’s not unwelcome.

Connor’s other hand moves to grip Hank’s hair, holding his head in place. He’s tonguing him so fiercely, Hank wonders if he has tonsils anymore. When Connor breaks the kiss, he’s exhaling heat to cool his processors and his head is bowed. Hank’s lips press to his forehead, and he feels warmth there.

Just as his brain cracks open the door to more intimate thoughts, Connor’s voice slicing through him slams it shut, “Hank Anderson.” Full name, oh boy. “Why do I detect elevated levels of sodium and sugar in your saliva?”

 _Fuck_. Hank’s brain scrambles for an excuse and he’s moderately impressed with himself when he has a smooth answer at the ready, “I used too much of that vinaigrette dressing.” The blatant fib on top of the lie by omission regarding his lunch churn uncomfortably in Hank’s stomach.

Connor’s eyes narrow before asking, “And why are my sensors reading traces of _beef_.”

Hank knows he must look like a deer ready to be creamed by a mac truck, but he offers a few um’s and uh’s before settling on, “I made some soup.” This lie is less believable and Hank can see Connor tugging at the thread of his deceit, unraveling it slowly.

“You made beef soup?” Connor asks incredulously. Hank knows he should cut his losses now but something moody rises in his chest. He’s a grown man; he can eat what he wants. He squashes down the guilt of his duplicity and embraces his immature desire to be petulant.

“Yes,” is all he offers before trying to casually stroll past Connor.

“Is that so?” Hank can see Connor advancing on him, and he takes off at a slow jog, painfully aware of each jolt of his feet making contact with floor ricocheting into his shoulder. Hank peeks over his shoulder and blanches when he sees Connor coming at him, mouth slightly open in a determined smile, clearly ready to tongue fuck the truth out of him if necessary.

Having covered the distance from his kitchen to his living room, Hank realizes the absurdity of what he’s doing. He would blame it on the painkillers, but without his most recent dose, that excuse fell flat. He feels a laugh building in his gut, realizing that, while Connor is annoyed, they’re being playful for the first time since Hank got shot.

Hank sinks onto his couch, letting Connor capture him between his legs, straddling his lap. Connor looms above him with a quirky smile on his face, “Are you going to tell me what you actually ate for lunch or,” he breaks off to start peppering kisses along Hank’s neck, “do you want me to find out the hard way?”

Hank’s on the verge of saying _the hard way_ when Connor’s mouth tilts up in a way that presages his instinct to be a little shit, “The hard way is not pleasant.” Hank huffs beneath him, his eyes slanting away.

“I had a burger.”

“Really?” Connor says with ill-hidden sarcasm, “How long did you wait after I left this morning?” Irritation flares to life in Hank’s chest but his guilt quickly stomps out the flame.

“I had fries and a shake too. They sucked.” Connor’s head rolls back in open laughter at Hank’s sullen tone.

“I did try to warn you.” Connor leans forward again to press his forehead against Hank’s, closing his eyes.

Hank complains back, “Yeah, but now I don’t like anything. Salads are awful and I can still feel that burger sitting in my gut.”

Connor’s hand sinks down to press against the swell of Hank’s stomach. The touch is gentle and combined with Connor straddling him Hank’s pulse skips a beat.

Connor senses Hank’s growing arousal before he feels it pressing into him. He admonishes him in mock sarcasm, “Henry, so help me, if you do not get your sexual urges under control—,” Hank cuts him off with a bounce of his knee.

“The last time you called me Henry, I got shot.” He chuckles and Connor scowls at him darkly.

“That is a gross misrepresentation of events.” Hank shifts trying to pull Connor closer, but Connor isn’t having any of it now that Hank’s actually sporting an erection, “Hank, you’re not healed enough to engage in activity more vigorous than rapid walking, what on earth makes you think you are capable of sex?”

Hank narrows his eyes slightly, feeling very much like Connor is questioning his masculinity. He knows that’s not the case, but it’s been weeks since they’ve done anything more than kiss and Hank is ready to burst.

“I’m healed enough.” He tries to prove his point by attacking Connor’s mouth, attempting to force Connor’s arousal to the surface. He thinks he’s succeeded when Connor lifts his hand to rest lightly on his shoulder, but then white-hot pain rips through him. Connor arches one smug eyebrow, his grip barely there on his recovering shoulder.

“I’m barely touching you and your vitals are already all over the place. I don’t want to jostle you and risk delaying your recovery.” A red flush stains Hank’s cheeks at Connor’s use of _jostle_ and the implications that go with it.

“Fine,” he says it with a huff before gingerly crossing his arms. Connor’s wearing an amused expression that makes Hank’s mood worse. Hank feels Connor’s hand reach for his face before tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ear. He meets his eyes and can almost see Connor running calculations and constructing possible outcomes.

“How about a compromise?” He asks quietly, and Hank’s cock all but bobs in agreement.

“Co-Compromise?” Connor grinding down on him lightly makes the question come out as a stutter.

“Mhm,” Connor murmurs against his ear. “If you can lie still without moving your arms, I can help you take care of _this_ ,” he drags himself against Hank’s straining erection to emphasize his point. Hank tries to go horizontal so quickly that he knocks Connor sideways in his haste.

Connor laughs lightly, “I give you points for enthusiasm, but I meant on the bed—not on this couch.” When Hank tries to scramble from the couch, Connor slows him with a palm on his chest, “There’s no need to rush, Hank.” Connor’s hand brushes near his injury while giving him a meaningful look and Hank gets the message.

The distance from his living room to his bedroom isn’t long, but Hank wonders if Connor is walking slower than usual on purpose. When Connor opens the door, he steps aside making a sweeping gesture with his arm. Hank enters first with Connor close behind him. Hank lets Connor help him out of his clothes, his fingers dragging up his sides and moving with sensual intent.

“Lie down,” Connor says quietly, guiding Hank with his hands. When Hank relaxes onto the mattress, Connor continues, “I learned something new.” His tone is coy and makes heat curl in Hank’s stomach. Connor’s hand finds Hank’s flushed cock, running light touches over it. His eyes never waver from Hank’s.

“Yeah? What’s that?” thick arousal colors his words, making Connor smile.

“I can produce saliva or something similar to it.” Hank grunts in confusion until Connor casts a telling glance down to Hank’s straining erection.

“Oh,” he says quietly, realizing what Connor intends to do. Connor has blown him before, but there was something disquieting about him squirting a glob of lube into his mouth first to do so.

“I could always do it; it’s just a solution designed to help clean internal components that I can’t easily access. I wasn’t sure if it was safe for you. As it turns out, it’s mostly water based.” Connor smiles and closes his mouth for a moment before his undeniably moist tongue darts out to leave a shining trail across his upper lip. Hank’s hand reaches up to touch it and Connor sucks his forefinger into his mouth. It’s warm and wet and—

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Hank’s imagination takes off at the sensation of Connor’s tongue dragging along the underside of his finger. Connor’s hand wraps around Hank’s wrist and pulls the finger from his mouth with a lewd sound.

“Care to give it a test run?”

Hank nods his head in emphatic agreement, “Fuck yes.”

“Before we begin, I have one request,” Hank pulls an impatient expression that Connor ignores. He rearranges Hank’s arms to rest lightly by his sides, ensuring his shoulder is comfortable. “I want you to keep your hands here; don’t move them. Do you think you can do that?” Hank’s pretty sure he could learn to fly if it meant Connor would shut up and blow him already. He nods and bucks his hips upward impatiently.

Connor gives him an indulgent smile before dipping his head down to the source of Hank’s frustration. Hank tries to sit up to watch what Connor’s doing, pulling himself up onto his forearms.

Connor halts abruptly before asking, “What did I say about your hands, Hank?” A flush comes to life, dusting the apples of Hank’s cheeks. He lies back down, understanding Connor’s intent.

The first drag of Connor’s warm, wet tongue up the underside of Hank’s cock pulls an obscene moan from his chest. Connor hums contentedly at the sound before swirling his tongue around the tip. He sucks the head into his mouth, dancing his tongue around it, refusing to take Hank fully.

Connor continues like this for several minutes; what he’s waiting for, Hank can’t hazard to guess. His hands clench and unclench reflexively, frustration coalescing with his weeks’ long pent-up arousal. His fingers drift to Connor’s hair, pressing slightly in a non-verbal request for more. Connor’s response is to pull away entirely, a small, devious smile playing about his lips.

“Connor, what the fuck?”

His smile broadens before asking, “Where are your hands, Hank?”

Realizing that he just waltzed into a very obvious trap, he tries to lie back down and put his arms where Connor had them, “They’re, uh, right here.”

Connor tilts his head giving Hank a predatory yet fond smile. He sits up straighter, leaning back on his heels. Slender fingers rise to loosen his tie before pulling it away entirely. He frees the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing a few of the freckles Hank likes best.

He shuffles forward until he’s entrenched by Hank’s thick thighs, “Let me see your hands.”

Hank’s heart hammers in his chest; his arms remain by his side, “What?”

“Your hands, please,” Connor extends an arm and waits, his smile never wavering. Hank brings his hands together, offering them to Connor. He raises an eyebrow, meaning it as a question.

“Thank you,” is Connor’s only answer. Hank watches in silence as Connor reaches for his tie, understanding coiling to life when Connor manipulates the tie into two intricate loops.

Hank exhales a quiet _Fuck_ and knows with absolute certainty it’s going to be one of _those_ afternoons. He wonders if it’s possible for his dick to get any harder.

Connor wraps the tails of the tie around his fist, pulling the ends taut. He watches as Hank tests the resistance, “It’s called a handcuff knot.” Hank makes a face and Connor quips, “The irony is not lost on me, _Lieutenant_.”

Hank turns his head to the side, trying to hide the red flush consuming his face. Connor’s leans forward to cradle Hank’s cheek with his free hand.

“Always so shy about the things you desire,” his fingers trace down Hank’s jaw over his chest and the soft swell of his gut before reaching their final destination. “Your arousal betrays you every time,” he wraps his fingers around Hank’s cock, stroking him lazily, making him squirm.

“D’you, fuck, always have to…be like this?” Hank struggles to get the words out of his mouth, his arousal making coherent speech difficult.

Connor considers the question, continuing his long, slow pumping, “Does it bother you?”

Hank gives him a dirty look before admitting, “No.”

Connor smiles, repositioning himself, his head hovering over the flushed, glistening tip of Hank’s dick “Then yes.” Hank’s retort is lost in a moan as Connor engulfs him to the hilt. Hank’s hands strain to move to grip Connor’s hair, but the restriction of his arms is complete.

Connor’s voice, clear and lacking any muffling, stills Hank’s frantic motions, “Hands, Hank.”

Hank lifts his head, trying to figure out how Connor is talking around a throat full of dick. Connor’s eyes grin up at him, “My voice box, as it was, isn’t affected by obstructions. Try not to think too much about it.” Hank’s head flops back onto the bed as Connor hollows his cheeks and resumes sucking at Hank’s length.

Hank’s preference for Connor’s ability to produce saliva over using lube is instant. It’s warm and much more fluid feeling than the viscous lubricant Hank keeps in the bedside table. There’s also the added advantage that Connor can produce more of it whenever he wants without having to pause to resupply. Hank can feel a trail of it run down his balls.

When Connor surfaces for a moment to look at him, a glistening strand lingers between his lips and the tip of Hank’s cock before snapping. The sight of Connor staring at him with hungry eyes and spit-shined lips is almost enough to unman Hank on the spot.

“Fucking hell, kid.” He tries to lift a hand to touch Connor’s lips, forgetting he can’t move them, “Connor.” He says it in a tone meant to convey he wants the restraints off, but Connor gives him a smile that he knows means he’s not going to get his way.

“You have very grabby hands, Hank. I wouldn’t want you to strain your injury.” Connor’s hand sinks between Hank’s legs, rolling his balls lightly.

“This is…not how we should…discuss things,” Hank huffs out, panting through Connor’s ministrations.

“I like to see you like this,” Connor’s hand returns to Hank’s cock, still slick with spit, “on the verge of orgasm. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Hank groans in a mix of embarrassment and arousal before Connor offers, “But I think you’ve had enough, yes?”

Hank thinks he’ll never have enough of Connor, but he understands what he means. Connor’s lips press gently against the head of Hank’s dick before devouring his length, swallowing him whole again and again. Connor can tell Hank is close and he constricts his throat around Hank’s girth in an imitation of swallowing. Hank’s body trembles and Connor performs the action again with a pleased _hmm_.

“Connor,” Hank strains against the bindings around his wrists, seeking contact, “Connor, please.” Connor releases his hold and laces his fingers with Hank’s hand on his injured side, holding it in place. Hank pulls his other hand free to card his fingers through Connor’s hair before gripping at it, anchoring himself to the moment.

Connor’s throat convulses several times in rapid succession, pushing Hank over the edge. Heat whorls deep within his gut before racing through him, exploding in ropes of sticky, white cum. Connor’s throat milks him through his orgasm, pulling everything Hank has to give. When Connor pulls away, Hank’s dick hits his thigh with a wet slap, deflating and completely spent.

A boneless, warm wave of satisfaction rolls over him. Connor moves up the bed to drop beside Hank and run his fingers over his chest. He props his head on his arm, smiling down at Hank’s content expression.

“You are _very_ good at that,” Hank mumbles and Connor laughs. After a moment, he adds, “But please don’t talk to me when my dick is halfway down your esophagus.” Connor rolls his eyes, but Hank knows he’s adding the request to his never-ending mental checklist regarding Hank.

Hank feels sleep threatening to consume him and Connor must notice because he nudges him, “You need to eat, Hank. It seems to me you’ve only had caffeine and garbage today.” Hank makes a grumpy sound in Connor’s direction, but he sits up and tugs on his pants all the same.

“Fine, but it better not be a salad. I have four more of those in the fridge.” Hank rises and rolls his shoulder, realizing it doesn’t ache so bad this evening. Maybe he should ask Connor to blow him more often.

Connor punts the idle thought from Hank’s mind when he says, “Which you _will_ eat for lunch this week and _not_ deposit in the neighbor’s trash bins.”

Hank startles and whips his head around, wanting to know how in the hell Connor knew where he’d dumped the first salad. Connor considers him with stern regard for a moment before a slight smile tugs at his lips, “The home security system. I reviewed the footage when I got home and you started acting odd.”

Hank’s mouth flaps uselessly for several moments before asking, “How? When? You’ve been with me since you walked through the door.”

Connor rises and leans into Hank’s space, a smug smile on his face, as he taps his LED “I can multitask Hank.” Hank tries to shove past him, but Connor cages his body against the wall, pressing a kiss to his neck.

“Alright, alright,” Hank says gruffly, “I’ll eat the damn salads for _lunch_.”

Connor smiles and leans back a fraction before asking, “Because you love me?”

Redness creeps up Hank’s neck, still feeling slightly sheepish about admitting his affections. He mutters, “Yeah, and that’s the _only_ reason.” Connor’s fingers thread through his, tugging him from the room with a pleased smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Nobo for the idea of Connor chasing Hank around with his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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